Date: Sun, 05 Jul 1998 20:33:52 -0700
To: ultra@caligari.dartmouth.edu
From: Vida J Morkunas
Subject: Pacing Judy at Western States 98
[if it was long to run, it will be long to read :-) ]
FORESTHILL, June 27, late at night. The saloon girls are still here,
dancing the cancan to Wild West music. There is a carnival atmosphere
throughout: vans spilling out with runners, their crew and their pacers.
Hangers on, taking in the show. Traffic jams that are incredible, yet
people are pleasant. Cafes blaring loud music, local boys and girls hanging
out on the front porch, watching us city folk being foolish. Who in their
right mind would want to run up and down the nearby canyons?
The runner I had planned to pace has dropped out earlier in the day. I am
pacing back and forth between the medical tent, and Pacer Central. I have
given my name to the pacer list long ago, but there is a long list of other
names ahead of me. Questions run through my mind: Will I be a good pacer?
Will I be of help? Will the heat of the next day do me in? Can I run more
than my age in miles?
It's 11pm. I meet list friends at Pacer Central, 50 feet away. Dave
Littlehales, with whom I corresponded from the Ultra/DRS list. John Davis,
RD of the Baldy Peaks 50K which is my next race (Sept 12), Steve Reagan
whom I met at the caMp last month, and whose pacing exploits were profiled
in Rich Limacher's WS saga on Ultra.
Steve has been waiting for three hours to find a runner. Runners going
through already have a pacer, or want to do this solo. Other runners that
might have wanted a pacer have already dropped out. I'm next after him....
Ultrarunning legend Stan Jensen runs through. 'I need a pacer!' All
right, Steve!!
Oops, there is one pacer ahead of me, still, a red-haired woman working
Pacer Central lists. She nabs two runners, Beacham Toler and Terry
Shelden who are running together and will finish seven minutes ahead of us.
Then another half hour of waiting... it's after midnight... it's almost
half past midnight.... I have half-decided to go back to Auburn with
friends for the night. I'm getting soooo tired, so sleepy. Perhaps pacing
was not in the cards after all. I chat with David Littlehales, and with
John Davis. We watch Diane Eastman run past, Tina Scalise, and others...
"I need a pacer!!"
David and John point to me. A blur runs past. I hurry to catch her.
The runner made her call, and is already walking away into the dark
Foresthill night. She is carrying two flashlights, one in her hand, the
other on her belt. I arrange a similar getup - I take out my Coleman
Rugged green flashlight that I had bought earlier in the day, and clip on a
small belt-mounted flashlight to my water belt. We see four bobbing white
circles on the ground as we are getting closer and closer to California
street.
'Hi, I'm Vida' I say.
'Vida ! Great to meet you. Thanks for being my pacer ! Do you know this
trail well?'
'Well, I ran on it twice, and last time was oh, about a month ago. And I
have a pretty good memory. What's your name?'
'Judy [Novobielski-Muhs]. So Vida, what brings you to Western States?'
I tell her about my runner dropping out, and me waiting for hours at Pacer
Central before being picked up by her. I look at my watch - half past
midnight as we enter California Street. I have started the timer already.
My altimeter watch shows 3300 ft, and I remind Judy that it's all downhill
from here, to Rucky Chucky. I ask her if she wants to know, ahead of time,
about any big hills coming up, or any other hints and notes about the
trail. 'Gosh yes' she says 'absolutely'.
Glowsticks hanging from a nearby tree mark the start of the trail. We jump
into the forest, Judy ahead of me. She slows down considerably as we
negotiate the precarious footing.
She tells me about the first 62 miles of the race - the icy hills, the
runners sliding down off the trail, the falls some of them took, the beauty
of the canyons. This is her first time on this trail, this is her first
100 miles. She tells me she is a slow runner, and that she is fatigued at
the moment. I look at my watch, and hope for the best. For now, we are
going at a fair clip considering the terrain, and the darkness.
I've only run on trails at night when I was caught in darkness during an
overlong trail run. Which means - not much. Oh, perhaps an hour at most
each time, and that happened what - two or three times some years ago? The
first few minutes on the California Loop intimidate me. Will my
flashlights survive the night? Will this be as fun and as easy as it is
now? Will the morning bring brutal heat? I am a Northern girl, after all...
We spot two flashlights in front of us. Two other runners, negotiating the
steep downhill more gingerly than we are. Two shadows in the night - 'hi',
"hi". They step aside for us, we pass. The trail is steep, then evens
out, then becomes steep again. My feet remember the terrain, but my mind
is a little disoriented. We go on for minutes, then we reach the
switchbacks. Then, a run over a small stream. Back up, then back down.
Repeat, as the altimeter watch shows we are gradually losing altitude. The
initial surprise is over - this is fun.
Within 20 minutes, my hand-held flashlight is unusable. The light dims,
then dies. I take out the other flashlight, a big 2C Duracell behemoth I
had bought earlier in the day, and pray for the best. The light is strong,
with a wide radius. I shut off the belt-mounted flashlight.
In the distance we see two or three orange/yellow lights across the canyon,
mid-elevation. What is going on there? Other runners, on a parallel trail?
No, Auburn Trails are much further away. A house light perhaps? Is
anything being built there? We also see the lights of the city over the
canyon, orange against a black black sky. I put the dead flashlight into
one of the pockets of my black nylon vest. We see bright white lights
ahead of us, not moving.
First aid station ! Already !
I had packed a laminated card with all the names, distances and cutoff
times for each aid station. As we enter the Dardanelles station, I check
our time. We are well-ahead of the absolute cutoff, but behind time for
the 30 hour finish. Judy has not given me any instructions regarding a
finish time, and is not asking about how much time to the next station - so
I keep this to myself. Judy is getting a sports massage on her quads as
her camelback bottle is being refilled, and I reach for a defizzed coke and
tell the friendly volunteer that this is such a great experience except for
my flashlight dying earlier. 'No problem' he says as he rummages in a big
box full of batteries, and lights. He replaces the batteries in the dead
Coleman - does not work. He looks at the bulb 'darn, I'm out of those'. He
reaches into another box, and pulls out a small mag lite. Here, he says,
use this. He throws the Coleman into a box of dead flashlights.
I am in awe of his gift. 'Thank you!!'. I put it in my vest for later
use. Judy is getting up to go running again. 'You lead' she says.
Between Cal1 and Cal2, the trail appears more manageable. There are many
ups and downs, and by now I am completely comfortable with running in the
night. I had read so many posts on Ultra and elsewhere about nausea
induced by bobbing lights from flashlights - this is not the case for me.
At times, my tired brain sees 'rushing insects' coming towards me on the
ground, but then I realize that I am simply pointing my light at grass.
Judy is 20 to 50 paces behind me. I run a bit, then wait under a glowstick
at the next bend in the trail - always keeping her in sight. She wants me
to run on, have fun, but I'm here for her, so I stay close. This is easy,
and exhilarating. I wait, and look at the immensity of the sky above me.
This feels so peaceful, so adventurous. And, so incredibly safe. Here we
are, two women, running alone in the night far away from our homes, in the
deep remote woods. Amazing that this feels so natural. I would not want
to be doing anything else right now.
Judy and I chat about races that we have run, and races that we would like
to run. She tells me of her second overall female finish at The Grizz 50
Mile Race last year, only 20 seconds behind the winner, Vancouverite Sally
Marcellus. So much for being 'slow'..... We talk about work, about our
lives, me in Vancouver BC, she in Iowa. She tells me about her years in
Alaska. I tell her about my years in Latin America and in Sweden. Time
trots by.
We reach the 'main' station at Cal2. It has arrived surprisingly fast, it
seems. We hear the generators well before we see the lights. And there are
so many lights ! The area has an air of a patio party, lights hung high in
the trees, happy music on the air, volunteers rushing towards us to help us.
I had asked John Davis earlier whether, as a pacer, I would be able to
receive food and drink at the aid stations. Oh, he replied, you will be
treated as well as your runner ! Judy does a quick refill of her
camelback, I grab some potatoes and some defizzed coke, I ask for my water
bottles to be topped up, and we dive into darkness again. A checker jots
down our numbers before we head out.
It is now after 3am and we are nearing that section that I disliked in the
daytime, that hill followed by the hill and another hill after that :). I
had warned Judy about it, and we attack the hill with patience. It's not
so bad at night, it seems... It inspires me that Judy is so upbeat, so open
to this larger-than life experience. If she is at all tired, she sure does
not show it. She is taking it step by step, efficiently not spending a
minute more than necessary at each station, moving forward relentlessly.
Not three miles after the patio party, we are again at an aid station,
Ford's Bar (73 miles). We have seen few other runners on the trail, there
are two other runners (and their pacers) that we play leapfrog with. We
arrive at a corridor of chairs, a table, and more chairs, and Judy requests
that the small blister under her little toe be looked after by the medic.
I sit, and recognize the runner sitting next to me, from the Sunmart
pre-race dinner. 'Michael !! What are *you* doing here?' He is befuddled
that I would remember him, but we chat for a while, and eventually he
remembers me too. He is running this 100 mile race, and feeling great.
"Look at all those stars Vida. Isn't this amazing? We don't see stars like
this where we live". He advises me to run without light, to get the full
starlight experience. I mumble something about doing this on Sandy Bottom,
but he counters that, by then, it will be too late as dawn will be
breaking. 'Do it soon' he advises.
The trail is flat, then rolling. I recognize this section of trail from
the two caMps I attended, and conversations I have had here rush back into
memory. The terrain is flat, but treacherous: I nearly fall off the
narrow, steep trail to the river a few times - footing is that precarious.
I mention to Judy that the whitish surface down below is the river, that we
are about 500 feet above it. Then I run ahead again, out of range from her
two flashlights, and shut my light.
I remember decades ago, at my parents' cottage in the North East, wanting
to be like the fish, and exhaling as much I could from my little lungs
before diving to the bottom of the lake. There, I would lurk like a big
five-year-old pike, lying on the bottom of the pond, eyes wide open,
wondering what other fish would want to be my friends. I would stay under
as long as I could - until my mother would notice and would start yelling
for me to come back up.
I remember late one night, jumping into the lake, and waiting for the fish
to come. I rolled on my back and watched the moon and the skies from ten
feet under water, the light reflecting with clarity from the undisturbed
stillness of the water. Then, I rolled slowly back on my belly again, and
saw hundreds of little eyes peering back at me. The fish? Or the stars
reflecting under water?
And here I am, on the Western States trail, reliving the memory. Thousands
of little eyes looking at me from the sky, and from the trees too, no
doubt. I am amazed at the cacophony of the night - owls, cicadas, birds,
and the endless rustling in the leaves of something jumping back or
slithering away as I arrive on the trail bend. No, Judy and I are
definitely not alone tonight.
We are picking up the pace - I decide to step up a bit. When I press on,
Judy presses on too. And now, she is lagging a bit. Time to run closer.
We talk, we share stories from our personal lives, we talk about work. We
emerge onto Sandy Bottom, and I shut off my trusty flashlight. Dawn is
breaking, I don't need the light anymore. We walk through the station, and
one of the captains urges us to mind the time, we are right on the cusp.
We are given cups of soup and told to just GO!!!
We pick up the pace, and run to Rucky Chucky (78.0 miles), holding on to
our empty soup cups. As Judy is weighed and checked by the medics, I grab
more food. My stomach is growling, loudly. Morning is breaking, it's
breakfast time.
We are ushered to the Rucky Chucky crossing. Volunteers put safety jackets
on us, and we are told to get on the raft. A young man rows the tethered
boat across the river, as Judy and I snap pictures. I look at Judy - so
this is what this person looks like ! We spent the whole night talking with
one another, and I never saw her until now...
On the other side, our jackets are removed, and I shout out the race number
of my assigned runner. Hopefully, despite his DNF, his bag is still on the
grounds. The drop bag is located after some time, and I gratefully grab
new socks. I change them, and throw the old socks, the black vest and the
flashlights into the runner's drop bag. By this time, Judy has already
started the climb to Green Gate. I grab more food, and start a slow jog up
the hill.
It is now 6am.
I catch Judy within minutes, and we run together, with other runners. The
red-haired woman who was pacing the two gentlemen is running with us. 'How
are you doing?' I ask her 'pretty good, so far...' 'good going !!' 'yeah,
good going you too !' We pass the pacer and her two charges and motor up
the hill.
At Green Gate (mile 79.8) we see an ambulance making its way down the road
that we just climbed. I hear something about a disoriented runner, okay
otherwise, on the dispatch radio.
With dawn comes a new burst of energy. How I love morning. I see the sun
lazily lighting up the crests of the canyons on the other side of the
river. A sliver at first, then a few hundred feet, then the top half...
We run the 5.4 miles with gusto. This is fun. This is energetic. We
never lose, or gain, more than 50 feet of altitude. Always in the
neighborhood of 1400 feet. We run in and out of the canyon fjords,
sometimes we see the American River, then we are deep in the forest,
looking for that hairpin curve sending us back to the river. I love that
section of the trail, it is smooth, it is narrow, and the heathers above us
and below us are in full blooms of grey, purple, orange and yellow.
We meet with new runners, and their pacers. We pacers cheer one another
on, whispers of looking good, you go girl. The immensity of the race never
hits me, it just feels like another morning run. That began last night
sometime after midnight...
The trees are talking to me. I double-take, what is going on? Then I
realize that I am hearing the echoes of conversations of other runners with
their pacers, as though they were right below us on this very same trail,
when they are across the gorge, just a few hundred feet ahead of us. I hear
bits of conversation, recognizing the gender of voices, but unable to make
out the words. The sun still has not hit our side of the canyon, but it
will, soon.
Auburn Lake station arrives sooner than I thought - and Judy is happy. The
well-organized station volunteers find my runner's other drop bag (I was
carrying both pacer numbers with me throughout) and my bottles are refilled
while I change into shorts and singlet (and the volunteer angels drop in
some ice ! ah, they are so thoughtful !!). I catch Judy again on the trail
and ask her if she has been eating. 'Nothing looks appetizing anymore.
It's all the same...' I offer some crackers that I pilfered from the last
station. No thanks.
She sure is drinking lots though. We stop many times to relieve the
kidneys. We leapfrog a new group of runners and their pacers, and later
they leapfrog us. We feel strong, we feel happy. She runs only a few
paces behind me, I press on, and so does she. This is terrific. At last
we reach the Browns Ravine aid station at 89.9 miles (a little after 9am)
and indeed, we are hearing the music from the station well before we
actually reach it. The station is located on an uphill from a small
ravine, and I note with horror that an immense snake is coiled around a
dying frog. Goodness !! The first snake of the day and it's HUGE !!
The volunteers erupt with laughter at seeing my expression. It dawns on me
that the snake is plastic, as is the frog. And so is the smaller snake,
further up the trail. 'Oh you guys !!!!' I scold, happily. "Well, it's
our way to see whether you are mentally alert enough to keep going in the
race" 'Don't test me, test my runner' I tease back. The station is manned
by hashers. I see On-On signs everywhere, and one of the tired volunteers
offers me a fresh frothy beer and a wet, oily, marinated egg.
Ah, maybe later.
Judy saunters in, her camelback is refilled. Her mood is upbeat, we smile
and laugh. Ten miles to go, and a bit !! Isn't this great!? I get ice for
my bottles, pop some Succeed pre-race caplets and some buffered electrolyte
pills (I have been taking the latter every hour on the hour, and the
pre-race caps supplement the dose I took when I started with my runner at
Forest Hill). We're on our way...
Down a hill, down another hill, and there's the river. We are running on
open gravel roads, there is no shade. I find the heat oppressive, and I
stay close to my runner. We don't talk much now, we are each dealing with
the heat, and some tiredness. From the corner of my eye I see something
hurtling towards us -- MOUNTAIN BIKERS !! They are fast, and they are not
careful. One of them zooms by so close, that I can smell the detergent
that he used to wash his clothes.
Another couple zooms past, and I scream 'hey !! there's a race going on !!'
I turn back and look at Judy, and she has stopped and is looking at the
bikers. 'Dangerous area, we will be out of here soon' "Yeah, climbing
along the quarry"
Soon we are on the trail going over the quarry. It's a mile and a half
uphill battle, on a narrow rocky trail. We advance at glacier speed. We
are both spent. I try power-walking. The red-haired pacer reappears with
her two runners. One of them comments that I sure walk fast. 'Good going'
I tell him, encouragingly, as they pass.
The hill saps our energy, as it is steep and very sunny. The overhanging
trees don't offer a lot of shade. We meet the runners that we saw some
hours ago, on the lower trails, they pass us, we pass them again. On the
crest of the hill, a man and a petite blonde woman are bent over, panting,
holding their knees. 'Howya doing this morning?' I ask. He answers
'runner's doing great, but this pacer's beat'. We encourage the two, just
a few more miles to go...
The station at Highway 49 could not come soon enough. It feels like high
noon, and I am becoming worried about time. The absolute cutoff at the
station is 11:15, and it is now ten to eleven. We stroll through, and as
Judy is going through another medical check, I ask for my bottles to be
refilled with ice and water. The volunteer is tired, he has seen enough
for the day it seems. And what a long day it has been for this station's
volunteers ! They started before 7:30pm, which is the time the front
runners go through, and here they are sixteen hours later, still manning
their station... I get water, I get ice, I put in some powder into my
bottles, I am on my way.
The beautiful meadows past 49 are beautiful indeed, but we do not run
through them. We walk them gently. Judy is in extraordinary spirits, never
complaining, her voice always upbeat. So far, I feel energetic, and awake.
10km to go...
And we have two hours...
.9 miles later we are at Pointed Rocks, it's 11:15. The pressure is on.
We see one runner and his pacer, and they are pressing on. We start a
pursuit.
We speed walk down a difficult trail strewn with rocks and washed out from
flash floods that happen after rain. Or so it seems, from the deep groves
in the red-soil path. The trees around us are large, with lots of acorns
on the ground. I think of my friend Jason, and his mishaps with acorns and
twisted ankles.
Down down down we go, getting closer to No Hands bridge. We hear heavy
panting behind us, we move to the left to let the runner pass, and realize
that it's a woman on a horse. She is too close to us, which makes me
somewhat nervous, and she and Judy talk about ponies and horses and the
Tevis Cup race.
The volunteers at No Hands bridge are pacing nervously and caution us that
we have little time left. We are at 96.8 miles, with about 45 minutes to
go. We see the runner and his pacer making way across the bridge. We
follow suit. I take quick snap of Judy on No Hands, and she does same for
me. And then we start running.
Never in my life have I raced this late in a race, under such heat. To be
truthful, never have I come this far either. And here we are, running,
pressing on to catch up to the two men, to catch up to the clock. Judy
runs up the hills, I power walk behind her. Then, she walks, I lead.
Then, she runs, I run behind her. We catch up to them, and they are
shuffling. We shuffle behind them. I try so hard not to let this bother
me, but it does. We gain some altitude, and I keep searching for the town
of Auburn on the horizon.
But all I see is deep forest.
I am crestfallen. We have about half an hour left, and more than 2 miles
to go. I remember scatteredly how the rise in the trail yielded to some
sort of gravel road, and then a paved road to town. But shouldn't we see
the town by now? I see a man on the trail, waiting. He looks so clean and
fresh and well rested. 'STEVE!!!' screams Judy. 'Judy !!! All-right!!!
Hey everyone, Judy is here !!' And a living, happy mass of humanity
charges down the hill to meet their friend. I envy them for their energy,
their happiness, their enthusiasm. I see mine flailing so pitifully. We
all run together now, and as Judy decides to walk a little, the other
runner and his pacer pass us.
One of the friends looks at my Dear Runners Society singlet and asks me if
I know Jerome Focosi of Spokane. Small world !!
I see John Davis. He high-fives me for coming so far. 'You have LOTS of
time' he says. I ask him about pacing - did he find a runner last night?
He didn't, but Dave Littlehales is pacing Matt Mahoney, and he should be
here any moment, too. 'Looking good Vida. Way to go!' He cheers my
runner, she smiles...
We are now on the paved streets of Auburn. We have less than half an hour.
I remember 1997 caMp, running this part in survival mode with Reinhold,
both of us dehydrated, both of us tired. Today is better, without the
dehydration, and with so much more purpose. Here is Judy moved by her
friends, they are encouraging her every step, her every progress forward.
And Judy's speed coach, who is running ahead of us, tells us 'after this,
it's the bridge, and you can use your weight and gravity to just FLY to the
finish Judy ! you are almost there !'
There's the high school !!! We run in, and we are on the track. Dori
reminded us that we have to run 300m before the finish banner. We all run
together. 100m from the finish, race volunteers tell the crew to come to
the sidelines. Judy stops, turns around and yells 'Vida ! Come run with
me ! I want you to finish with me !' And I run to her, and tears are
blocking my vision and we run together, a few hundred feet, to the finish
line, where a very choked up norM is waiting for Judy, tears in his eyes,
medal at the ready in his hands. Just before we reach the finish banner I
grab Judy's arm and raise it as we cross. She did it. She finished. Judy
just completed her first 100 miler.
And a newspaper photographer takes a picture, and we are temporarily
blinded, and Judy runs to Norm and he places her medal around her neck and
he gives her a big hug and I give her a big hug
I look around me, it's not yet 1pm and there are people standing nervously
on the bleachers, waiting for their runner to rush in during the last
remaining 7 minutes of the race. I see the medical tent, and the massage
tent. I see my friends.
And all I want to do right now, is just to sit down.
Vida.
vida@direct.ca
Happiness is not getting what you want, but wanting what you have.
Rabbi Hyman Schachtel